


Denier

by Salmon_Pink



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmon_Pink/pseuds/Salmon_Pink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ginny's strong but the temptation is stronger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Denier

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Fireworks Porn Battle '06](http://femslash-today.livejournal.com/23265.html) at [Femslash Today](http://femslash-today.livejournal.com/), prompt "Pansy/Ginny, lines".

As exams creep closer, the weather gets warmer. Students fling their robes over their shoulders, roll up their sleeves, loosen their ties and unbutton their shirts. Summer is in the air, and on everybody’s lips.

Ginny Weasley storms through the corridors with a scowl that could summon a thunderstorm and thick winter tights clinging to her legs.

Every time, every single time, she swears it will be the last meeting, the last instance of sneaking through the castle after dark. The last opportunity to embarrass herself. The last chance to pull away before somebody gets hurt. Especially since that somebody is always bound to be _her_.

And now it’s too late, because she _is_ hurt, though not in the way she was expecting.

The woollen material feels like it’s encasing her thighs in a cocoon of heat, and Ginny’s ready to dive legs-first into the Lake if it will bring relief.

Every single time she tells herself that she’s in control, yet all it takes is one pointed look and she’s slipping from her dormitory in the middle of the night like an obedient little girl.

She’s stronger than this. She _is_.

She steels herself, every single time, as she creeps down the staircase. She doesn’t have to continue, she can say her piece and leave.

But Pansy’s always waiting with that _look_ on her face, the look that Ginny can never turn away from. Superior and indulgent and utterly infuriating.

And then her robes drop away, and there’s black and lace and visible underwear, and on anybody else it would look tacky and ridiculous, but Pansy _owns_ her sensuality, and Ginny thinks that maybe Pansy owns a piece of Ginny’s soul, because Ginny always forgets to say _no_.

And everything’s a blur, a tangle of limbs, and Pansy tries to push Ginny against the wall, so Ginny pulls Pansy’s hair, and then there are deeply unfeminine noises and a lot of snarling, and Ginny winds up on her back, blinking at the ceiling.

Pansy shoves Ginny’s thighs open and forces her way between them. Her nightgown is ripped slightly at the neckline so Ginny, naturally, leans up and reaches for the material and yanks until she hears a tear. Pansy slaps her hand away with a hiss, and Ginny can see her nipples through the detailed pattern on her bra.

Pansy retaliates by pushing Ginny’s skirt up and yanking her underwear down her thighs.

Ginny gasps and lets her head fall back against the stone floor, because she likes fighting with Pansy, but she doesn’t want Pansy to _stop_.

And Pansy claws at her underwear, pushes it further down her legs, and then her hair is tickling between Ginny’s thighs and Ginny almost yelps at the first swipe of Pansy’s tongue.

And _this_ is why Ginny can’t keep herself from answering Pansy’s unspoken invitations, can’t shake the nigh-on _addiction_ for their interaction. Pansy’s tongue licking at her, confident strokes, starting low and sweeping up, continuous motion that makes Ginny’s toes curl and her whole body rock in time with each damp thrust.

Pansy’s hands clamping down on her thighs is futile; Pansy can’t stop her desperate writhing any more than Ginny can. She hears, no, _feels_ Pansy growl something between her legs, and that just makes Ginny whimper, the most ridiculously weak sound.

She’s stronger than this. Fuck it, she _is_.

And Pansy’s hands slip around to grasp at Ginny’s inner thighs, thumbs digging into the muscle, fingers pinching at the skin. It _should_ hurt, it probably does, but Ginny’s too intent on the way Pansy’s tongue is lapping at her in ever decreasing swipes, on the way Pansy’s focusing on her clitoris, and, really, Ginny’s been turned on since she saw Pansy in the Great Hall at breakfast, since they made accidental eye contact and the day’s gauntlet was thrown down, and Ginny can feel her own heartbeat pulsing between her thighs.

And Pansy ripples her tongue in this particular way that Ginny can’t emulate, that she suspects may be genetic, or a trick learned from the Devil, and Ginny gasps and whines at the same time and almost starts coughing before another twisting trick has her throat opening to a groan.

Pansy growls and doesn’t move her tongue from Ginny’s flesh to do so, and that’s enough to send Ginny, trembling, over the edge, and Pansy’s perfectly-manicured nails raking painfully down the inside of her thighs only registers as the perfect compliment to the waves of pleasure and decadence.

But there are always repercussions, especially where Pansy is concerned, and the tights feel itchy against the pink and white striped lines Pansy left on her legs. The itch of the thick material is only _just_ preferable to suffering through the questions she knows would follow her if she didn’t cover the evidence.

And when Ginny sees Pansy, when their eyes meet across the library, when Pansy’s gaze drops to Ginny’s legs and that damn smirk graces her face, Ginny scowls.

She’d plot her revenge, but it’s too hot.


End file.
